


Fur and Flesh

by keerawa



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, POV First Person, Watson's Woes July Writing Prompts 2015, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 01:20:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4459763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keerawa/pseuds/keerawa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once Sherlock figured out John's secret, things quickly returned to normal.  At least, they both tried to pretend that it had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fur and Flesh

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [](http://watsons-woes.livejournal.com/profile)[watsons_woes](http://watsons-woes.livejournal.com/) JWP 2015 Picture Prompt #29, [Snow Wolf](http://watsons-woes.livejournal.com/1422382.html). 
> 
> This is a sequel to my 2013 story, [A Study in John](http://archiveofourown.org/works/628426). It can stand alone, but contains major spoilers for that story, so if you might want to read both, start there! Unbeta'd and written in a rush, so please feel free to point out any errors.

I knew that Sherlock would someday figure out that I was a werewolf. It was inevitable. The fact that he didn't know we existed only meant it would take him a bit longer to put the pieces together.

I moved in anyway.

When he finally realized, Sherlock asked me to tell him about it. He didn't demand it. Didn't deduce it and spout my secrets in front of everyone. He asked. And so I told him the truth.

That first day, he only had one question. "Will you be staying in Grimpen Village, then, with your … your pack?"

I could scent the fear on him. Not of my strength, or my teeth, or my bloodlust; Sherlock was afraid I would leave him. "Of course not," I answered. "I've got a shift at the clinic Monday morning."

He spent most of the next week lost in either the Internet or his Mind Palace, emerging for the occasional question.

"Is the transformation voluntary?"

"Do you walk on two legs, or four?"

"Is silver toxic to your species? And if so, at all times, or only when you are transformed?"

It gradually tapered off. I was pleasantly surprised. I'd expected Sherlock would bombard me with requests to see my wolf-self and subject me to dozens of intrusive experiments. Instead, he treated me like he always had, except for using me as a walking forensic lab.

"Smell this, John. Tell me what you notice," he would demand. I would comply, never certain if it was the substance being tested, or my senses.

My nightmares of waking up caged or strapped to a dissection table in Baskerville became less and less frequent.

I could feel him watching, me, though, and wondering. The need to know would build up in him sometimes, like the need for a cigarette or a fix. Sherlock would pace, snapping at me for breathing too loud, typing too slow, as if I did it to torture him. His desperate curiosity smelt like the build-up of ions before a storm.

I knew the feeling. I felt it every full moon when I stayed in the flat, stayed in skin, when I ached for fur.

Until tonight. Tonight the full moon was winter bright over the city. Flurries had fallen outside. I'd watched them drift down, kiss the glass of my bedroom window, and melt. Ms Hudson's heater was struggling to keep it at chilly, rather than cold, in the flat. But tonight I didn't feel the cold. Tonight the moon was full and my blood ran hot.

I stripped out of my clothes and ghosted down the stairs to the sitting room. Sherlock was perched on the back of his chair in his dressing gown and pajamas, staring sightlessly at the wall. I could see the goose bumps on his forearms. His bare feet sat vulnerable on the seat cushion. I could smell the curiosity rising from his skin and the hunger on his breath, two days without eating. Sherlock's scent wafted enticingly across the flat, and I shivered.

I padded closer, in fur now, closer to the ground, his scent stronger than ever, the pale naked flesh of his feet close, so very close. The breath huffed out of my mouth across the delicate skin of his arch.

Sherlock twitched. There was a short, sharp intake of breath over my head as he froze, looking down at me.

A new scent from Sherlock. His voice was low and prayerful. "John," he said. "You are magnificent."

A quick lick at the sensitive skin and he squeaked, the most ridiculous sound. I snorted and leapt up easily, curling up into the seat of his chair, covering Sherlock's feet.

"And very warm," he added, a laugh in his voice.

I settled in for a nap.

Sometime later I blinked awake to find his hands buried in my fur.

"Thank you," he whispered.

I grumbled, and went back to sleep.


End file.
